


Methods of Torture

by strixus



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-31
Updated: 2009-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixus/pseuds/strixus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are tortures by far more painful in the mind than in the flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Methods of Torture

From the beginning, Trowa had known it would come down to this. He knew how Khushrenada's mind worked, and knew that no matter what the pretense of his questioning had been, the final results would be the same whether he gave the information Treize was asking for or not. And now, after nearly forty-eight hours of unrelenting questions, bright light, depravation of sleep, food, and water, it came down to what the whole purpose of this exercise in futility had always been: to break him, mind, body and spirit, for the gratification of what ever twisted ego it was which drove Treize Khushrenada's mental agenda.

Trowa had been returned to his cell, the locking magnetic wrist cuffs replaced with archaic metal handcuffs, which in turn had been secured to a length of chain and a U-bolt secured into the bulkhead wall of the cell. He sat slumped against the cold metal of the bulkhead, body sore and tired, trying not to let exhaustion overcome his caution and alertness. It was a loosing battle, and he knew that the icy blue eyes of the enemy were watching him from behind the one way glass of one wall of his cell, relishing every moment as Trowa slowly lost the fight to remain awake.

I know what you are planning, Khushrenada, Trowa thought as unconsciousness finally claimed him; I know what you are planning and I know that it will fail.

***

Trowa jumped, laughing, and turned to face his surprise playful attacker, the younger and smaller blond pilot whom he had found himself so closely bonded to. Mischief danced in the blue eyes of Quatre, who had successfully snuck up behind Trowa and delivered a sudden shocking tickle to his unguarded sides.

"Hah, got you finally, Trowa!" The cry was one of delighted amusement, followed suddenly by a playful scream as Trowa dove at him, aiming for the equally ticklish spots on Quatre's sides and back. Together they collapsed into a pile on the overstuffed couch of the safe-house, laughing in a way neither had since the war had begun.

"It's so wonderful to be able to laugh like this, Trowa." Quatre said as he untangled himself from the ungraceful heap.

Trowa only nodded. He found he was entranced watching Quatre, intoxicated by his laughter. To hear something so beautiful, to see someone so beautiful, was a blessing he did not have words for. Quatre was so alive and so filled with all the beautiful things in the world, wonderfully and radically different from anyone he had ever known before. And for all the war had stolen from his innocent spirit, it all seemed returned in the simple act of laughter.

A realization struck him, a feeling of sudden devotion and wonder. Trowa realized he would do anything, anything at all, to keep that laughter and beautiful face always so filled with joy.

***

A swift, booted kick to his ribs bolted him awake, making his world a sudden reality of pain and blinding light. Trowa tried to inhale, but found his lungs refusing to take in air, the wind knocked out of him by the sudden brutal blow to his chest. He coughed with a corpse dry rattling sound which came again and again before at last found his lungs would take painful breaths again.

"Sit up!" A voice from out of the blinding light growled, and he felt another kick land hard across the left side of his chest, again filling his skull with the fire of pain. "Sit up, you piece of shit!" Slowly, Trowa complied, pulling himself up using the U bolt above his head where the chain which secured his handcuffs was attached. He blinked the world back into focus, finding himself in the same cell, the length of time he had slept unknowable in the constant lighting of the place. Towering over him, a guard in an OZ uniform regarded him with brutal disgust.

"Now, now," Spoke a soft, cultured voice from a speaker on the wall nearest the one way mirror, "That is no way to talk to our esteemed guest of honor." Trowa could hear the condescension dripping from Treiz's words. "After all, he has been most cooperative so far." Trowa laughed, despite himself, knowing it would only make what was coming even worse. "But I think it is time we showed our guest we mean business, isn't that right, Captain?"

"Right, Sir." The guard grunted, thumbing a hand sized black device from his belt, and shifting it eagerly from palm to palm before flicking the trigger once, producing an evilly blue electrical arc between the metal nodes on the tip of the device which was reflected in the eagerness in the guard's eyes.

***

Trowa had found himself watching Quatre every moment he could, living from the constant feeling of joy which buzzed through his nerves when ever he was around the blond pilot. He had memorized every movement, every detail, he thought, from the manicured nails on every finger to the golden lashes which framed crystal blue eyes, and yet still he could never see enough of this angel which had come into his life so unexpectedly.

"Trowa?" Quatre looked over at him with a question. Trowa cursed himself, having been caught staring at him once again. "What is it, do I have something in my teeth?"

Trowa only shook his head, trying to hide the blush he was sure was on his face, betraying him. "Well that's good. Your food is getting cold; eat something for a change, will you?"

Trowa could only laugh, nod, and obey, eating the rapidly cooling soup Quatre had fixed. He had never eaten so well in his life, no one had ever fed him the way Quatre had, cooking more than three meals a day, each one more than a day's worth of food in of its self. He felt slow, dumb witted with food. Or maybe that was the constant feeling of bliss which had a strangle hold on his brain every second he was in Quatre's presence. He had no words for this feeling, for this infatuation, for this pleasure, which overwhelmed anything else, and made him do things for Quatre he would never have considered doing before for another human being.

Was this love, he wondered as he finished the soup, looking again at Quatre. But this could not be love, he thought, for love was something that consisted of terrible things, lust and filth and pain; and those were things he could never see himself inflicting on this perfect soul, so innocent, which had so blessed his life.

***

Another discharging hiss of the taser, and Trowa felt himself fall into the twitching, pain soaked oblivion that lasted only merciful seconds before evaporating into the exhaustion and ache of still being alive. His muscles were on fire with burnt sugar, turned by the rapid twitching of muscles into spent lactic acid which settled into their fibers and ate what ever little strength there had been in them. He blinked, and the twisted, leering face of the guard swam back into focus.

"That is enough, Captain." The disembodied voice of Khushrenada spoke, and the guard stepped back, slipping the horrible black box back onto his belt. Despite the eagerness in the man's eyes, he was well trained and obeyed the orders without protest. Distantly, Trowa was aware of the fact that sometime during one of the assaults he had soiled himself, the cold wetness on one of his legs from the urine soaked fabric of the prisoner uniform an embarrassing reminder of the weakness of his body. But he had not cried out, not even once, and it was that silence that goaded Treize onwards, Trowa knew. So let him torture me until he kills me, Trowa thought, I will not give him the satisfaction of crying out for his amusement. I will not bend to his will, not ever.

"Suggestions, Captain?"

"Let my team have him, Sir." There was a grim smile on the guard's face.

"No, not yet, not yet, we should let him stand for a while first." At the words, the U bolt in the bulkhead suddenly started to rise, giving Trowa no choice but to stand with it, until it stopped well above head high, holding the chain taunt and the handcuffs with his wrists in them well above head level. The guard regarded him with the same look of disgust, and then left the room. The lights dimmed, and he was alone.

 

***

"Is there something you want to talk about?" Quatre regarded Trowa with a mixed look of concern and annoyance. Trowa shook his head, embarrassed to think that Quatre had seen through him so transparently. "You've been acting really weird lately, Trowa." And with that, Quatre returned to the book he was reading.

It was true, Trowa realized, he had been acting very strange lately. But how could he help but act strange, when his life had come to revolve around his time spent with Quatre. Everything he did seemed to tie into keeping Quatre smiling, keeping that laughter up, keeping his spirits high; but was it all for naught? He had no idea.

And he was caught up in trying to understand his own feelings in the middle of all of this. He knew what he felt must be love, but there were too many conflicting feelings in his heart and mind for him to be able to resolve into something so simple. Quatre was beautiful, angelically so, and for the life of him Trowa could not bring himself to ever imagine anyone ever thinking the same about him, especially not Quatre.

And how could he even think things like that about Quatre? He remembered the brutal life among the mercenaries where he had grown up, remembered what happened to the women in the camp whenever there had been any, and worse, remembered what had happened to him time and time again as he had grown older. How could that brutality have anything to do with love? Yet that word, that horrible word, had been used, and he could not understand.

Could Quatre ever feel the same about him, he wondered? Was it possible for that perfect boy to love someone as soiled as he was, or would Quatre never lower himself to even acknowledge how he felt. He did not think so, not ever.

***

His muscled burned, stretched beyond exhaustion, the tendons in his shoulders and neck hurt with a continual fire of pain that spiked every time he tried to move. He wanted to collapse, but he could not, or the chain pulled tight on his wrists, cutting into the flesh. How long had they left him here, he wondered, how long since he had drank water, let alone had food? There was no way to know, but he could feel the symptoms of dehydration setting in.

And then the lights were back, blinding, and the leering face of the guard with it. But there were others with him. How many, Trowa could not see, but he knew what this was. This was how Treize wanted to break him, with these men who would beat him, use him, and then use him again. In his dry throat, Trowa felt a chuckle catch. If Treize thought this would break him, he was very wrong. The first man's fist caught him squarely across the jaw, and he tasted blood as his dry lip split. Other fists followed, as well as kicks to his legs, and all Trowa knew was the blinding pain of each blow.

"Stubborn bastard," one of the men said, and with no further warning, the hard impact of a knee drove a lance of fire and pain through Trowa's mind as it impacted with his crotch. He almost cried out then, but irony saved him, with the blow having driven the air from his lungs. He wanted to curl up, to protect himself, but he could not. He coughed, and spit blood, barely aware of the world beyond that blinding pain. And still, as he shivered from the slowly fading pain, the blows continued.

He knew he had nothing more to worry about until the blows stopped. Assuming, of course, that he lived that long.

***

It was some time in the small hours of the morning, closer to dawn than to midnight, when something awakened Trowa from his light slumber. He lay still, listening, waiting to hear again what had awakened him, but no sound could be heard but the normal sounds of the house. He was about to close his eyes again, seeking sleep, when at last the sound again split the night. Someone had cried out, a wail of terror and fear, that struck him to the bone.

He was up and out of the bed before he had consciously processed the source of the sound, and surprised to find himself standing outside of Quatre's closed bedroom door. He knocked, calling out Quatre's name, but there was no answer. Carefully, he pressed his ear against the wood of the door, listening, and heard from within the sounds of quiet breathing, followed by a low moan and sounds of Quatre crying out again in his sleep, softer this time, but still clear.

Concerns furrowing his brow, Trowa pushed open the door. Quatre lay in a tangle of sheets and blankets, thrashing his head from side to side in his sleep, calling out in sleep muffled words over and over again. Gently, Trowa sat on the bed, and touched Quatre's arm, calling out his name quietly, trying not to startle the boy out of his nightmare. Quatre's blue eyes opened with a slight start, looking up at Trowa with sudden alertness. There were tears in those blue eyes, and the sight broke Trowa's heart.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry, Trowa." Quatre said, sitting up slowly. "I was having a nightmare… I must have woken you up." Trowa regarded Quatre with a look of concern, silencing the apology. "It's such a horrible nightmare, Trowa. So many people dying, and what's worse is I know it's real. All those battles…"

A sob shook the small shoulders and Quatre buried his face in his hands. "We killed all those people, Trowa. Why did we have to kill them?" Trowa could only shake his head, but those tear filled blue eyes moved him to do something he would never have otherwise done. He reached out and put his arms around the shivering shoulders of the blond pilot, pulling him close. Without a word, Quatre laid his head down on Trowa's shoulder, letting the tears fall unchecked as Trowa held him.

***

The flimsy cloth of the prisoner's uniform hung in rags now, barely held on to his body by what little was left of its substance. At some point, the taser had come back out again, and Trowa could feel his nerves humming still with the electrical shocks. How much longer will they make a game of this, Trowa wondered, and when will they do what they came to do, or kill me?

He had the answer only moments later as what little was left of his clothing was ripped off, thrown to the side by the guard who had tortured him earlier. Now, naked, he knew they were getting down to business. Again, the taser touched his lower back, this time burning his skin where the probes touched, and he was shoved face first against the wall by one of the others. Laughing and jeering filled his ears as one of the guards came at him from behind, the subtle sound of the fastener of his uniform trousers coming undone a bitter prelude to what was coming.

"Break him in for us, Ralph!" One of the voices called, answered by another who added, "I bet he's good and tight! Better to use your little pecker to rip him open for us big boys." There was much laughter at this last comment.

"Shut up." Came the growled comment from the man directly behind Trowa, and sudden extra force was applied by the hand on his back, pressing him even harder against the cold, bulkhead wall. "Just like you, George, to be looking forward to sloppy seconds on a boy." There was more after this, but it was lost to Trowa, who could only close his eyes and try to keep breathing slowly with the constant pressure on his back, pushing him against the cold metal.

This is what it comes down to, Trowa thought, always the same, no matter where I am. All I can be is used, and then tossed aside, and I'm not worth anything more than that. And he didn't need this once more to tell him these things about himself; he knew it in his heart. Treize could never break him, for one reason: he was already broken.

***

The morning after broke through a dreamless sleep, waking Trowa from a slumber deeper than he had known in years. Memory was slow to return to him, accompanied by a momentary disorientation as he realized he was no longer in his room. Quatre's dream, his nightmare, and holding Quatre late into the night, letting the blond boy cry out the remorse of a killer with a cause behind his murders, Trowa remembered it all clearly. And worse, he remembered how he had not thought about what Quatre was saying to him between sobs, but how wonderful the pale skin of his neck smelled, how soft the blond hair which brushed his face felt, and how wonderful the small thin body had felt held so tightly in his arms. Guilt flooded through him, and he could only be glad he had not acted on his temptations to take advantage of the proximity.

Then what was he doing in Quatre's bed, surrounded by that sweet smell that was Quatre, alone? For he was alone, Quatre was gone; his spot in the tangle of covers grown well cold. He rose, and searched the house, finding it empty; Quatre was gone. Trowa collapsed into a seat at the small kitchen table, his mind reeling with shock.

Quatre must have known, must have seen through the thin veil he had tried to keep up to hide his feelings. And last night had been too much, Trowa knew, with Trowa intruding on his privacy far too much, coming too close. And why would Quatre ever tolerate his closeness, his feelings? Quatre knew, he had to know, about Trowa's past, about the constant abuse of his time growing up among the mercenaries, and he wanted nothing to do with this used and broken soul which aspired to love him, so perfect.

Trowa did nothing to stop the tears as they fell, and for the first and last time, he cried out, telling the empty house of the pain of his broken heart.


End file.
